


No Escape

by Lif61 (UltimateFandomTrash)



Series: Whumptober 2020 [21]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Day 21, Demon Blood, Demon Blood Addict Sam Winchester, Detox, Gen, I Don't feel so well, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Infection, POV Sam Winchester, Pain, Sam Winchester Detoxing From Demon Blood, Sick Sam Winchester, Sickfic, Vomiting, Whumptober 2020, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27143284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UltimateFandomTrash/pseuds/Lif61
Summary: Sam fell off the wagon, and now he needs to detox.
Series: Whumptober 2020 [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947223
Comments: 2
Kudos: 72
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	No Escape

**Author's Note:**

> Whumptober 2020
> 
> No. 21 I DON'T FEEL SO WELL
> 
> Infection

Sam hadn’t meant to drink the demon blood, hadn't meant to let it infect him. Or, at least, that’s what he told himself. It’s what he’d told Dean, it’s what he’d told Castiel. Hell, it was even what he’d told Jody.

Yet here he was, thrown into his own dungeon in the bunker, left with two gallons of water, a bucket to pee in, another to throw up in, and an army sleeping bag.

Sam was currently lying on the sleeping bag, shaking. All of him hurt, and his vision seemed to spin, the world swirling around him. The inside of his head tingled all the way down to the core of his brain. The sensation left him moaning pitifully, wishing to everything out there that this would end.

Another cramp took his stomach, and Sam curled his knees up. He heaved himself up, and hauled himself over the bucket that he’d kept by him. He clung to it desperately, shaking so fiercely he was sure his muscles would scream. They seemed to be nearly doing so, firing off pain signals all over his body.

He spasmed.

Sweat dripped into the metal bucket.

_Pling! Pling!_

Fuck.

Sam’s vision pulsed, the edges flashing between red and black. He couldn’t breathe. Saliva burst in his mouth, and then his body heaved, and he was throwing up.

His lunch from just an hour earlier came up. Sam held himself over the bucket, waiting, knowing he wasn’t done yet.

He threw up again.

And again.

Then Sam pushed the bucket aside just a few inches, and lay back on the sleeping bag.

Water. He needed water.

But it was a few feet away, and Sam wasn’t sure he could even make it that far.

And inside, he craved It. The blood. The demons. The god damn evil of it.

The need pounded in his body, overcoming him, throbbing through his veins.

Afraid, just waiting for the powers in him to dig into his skull like a red-hot knife, Sam found himself crying. He didn’t sob, or make any noise. Tears just flowed silently, mixing in with the sweat on his skin. Soon, he would be flung around, attacked by the very thing he needed, left burst open from the detox.

God, he wished someone would come and check on him, if only to provide some comfort.

But Sam didn’t know what he’d do if someone came in here. Would he attack Dean and Castiel? Would he try to make a run for it?

 _No,_ Sam realized. He was sure he wouldn’t even be able to walk.

Somehow, he dragged himself over to the jugs of water, selected one, and popped the cap off. Sam struggled to hold the gallon up as he drank. He ended up lying on his stomach, awkwardly holding the upper half of his body up, back aching in protest, spine flashing with agony at the strain. And he bent his head down, tilting his head back in such a way that when he slightly tipped the jug, water trickled into his mouth.

Sam wanted to drink all of it, wishing it was hot, wishing it was power, wishing it was blood.

The water was at least cool, and he was grateful for it.

Sam slurped at it, drinking quickly.

 _No, slow down,_ he told himself.

If he drank any faster the sloshing in his stomach would make him sick, the sudden intake would leave him heaving over the bucket again, and the water could very well go right through him.

Sam knew he was dehydrated. How could he not be?

The walls of the dungeon swirled, the cabinet of torture devices seemingly falling over. The jug tipped. Water spilled.

Sam lay, half on the sleeping back, half off. He was against the hard stone floor.

At least he had one arm over the Devil’s Trap, and he could move it out. He’d walked through it earlier, tense, waiting, waiting…

And then he’d been able to walk out of it to the far wall.

It had shocked him down to his core, and then he’d held his head in his hands, and tried to not bash it into the wall.

The idea came to Sam now once more. He could end it.

No, no. He had to endure.

_Close your eyes. Relax._

Sam attempted just that, but something _pushed_ in him, seemed to kick with the pressure of the firing of a gun, and he was slammed back into the stone wall.

Sam screamed, and then he grunted, as the deliriously erotic power tossed him again.

His head knocked hard against the wall, splitting his skin along the back of his scalp.

Blood trickled down his neck, flowing quickly. It wasn’t long before it was in his shirt.

The blood that screamed for more, more, _more_ flung him clear across the room, and slammed him down onto his stomach. Sam tried to not throw up.

But the power took him once more, and there was nothing he could do.

His body dry-heaved, his stomach and esophagus pounding, as if what was trying to remain in him was pressing against his insides.

The blood in his veins seared. Sometimes, that fire was nice. It burned like an orgasm right after drinking from a demon.

Now it burned like the over-stimulation he’d received in the Cage, where any touch to his skin had left him writhing, and howling.

The invisible knife stabbed through his skull. There was nothing Sam could do, and his scream seemed endless, loud enough for someone to surely hear it.

Then, he knew he was going to die.

This was it.

Sam Winchester, hunter, legacy, Men of Letters, savior of the world was going to die.

His muscles tightened, and tightened till they hurt, and he blacked out.

When Sam came to, he was on his back, his face wet, blood on his lips, and in his mouth. Dean was holding him close.

“God, I’m so sorry, Sammy.”

Incoherent, sure he’d just had a seizure, Sam could say nothing back.

“I’m sorry we can’t take you to a hospital.”

Sam forced out a bitter laugh, a pained smile pulling at his lips.

“Yeah… we don’t do… hospitals anyway.”

“You’re damn right.”

“Am I gonna die?” Sam asked.

The fierceness of Dean’s voice battled against the roaring of the blood as he answered resolutely, “Not on my watch.”

**Author's Note:**

> I caught up! Watch me not write my story for tomorrow. Sounds just like me.


End file.
